


Blackberry Picking

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV), Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, Fluff, Frottage, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bradley has a big heart and loves everybody, especially Colin. He also has a secret magical power: he can make things happen by drawing them. But will he use his talent for good or ill? Featuring: a cast of ninjas and eejits, pranks that go wrong, angst, misunderstandings, broken hearts, and two boys growing up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stains Upon the Tongue and Lust for Picking

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Merlinrpf community mini-challenge on livejournal. Especial thanks to the wonderful archaeologist_d for beta-ing this fic, and helping me to make it into something so much better. Beta-ninja! Any mistakes or weirdness subsequently added in are my fault. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Well, this is fiction. I made it all up. I don’t know the people I’m writing about, and none of this ever happened. It’s a story. I don’t intend to cause any offence to anyone. I'm never going to receive any money for this work.

Bradley loves introverts. He loves the way they respond to him. He has the power and personality to pull away the carefully constructed facade and discover the warm, funny, likeable person that lies beneath.

Case in point: they’re out in Cardiff, and Bradley’s feeling a bit unsteady from all the cider.

“You’re a riddle, Col’n Mor’n,” Bradley says, slinging an arm round Col’s shodler. Shoulder. Thing. “A riddle wrapped within a mystery wrapped within a wossname.”

“Enigma?”

“Yeah, one of those.” He hiccups a bit. “Whereas I,” says Bradley, “M’ a ninja!” He strikes a pose for theatrical effect. Colin seems curiously unimpressed. “N’ introvert-uncovering ninja,” Bradley clarifies. His punctuating belch is nothing short of artistic. “You stick with me, mate,” says Bradley, patting Colin gently on the shoulder. “I’ll see you right.”

Colin staggers a bit as he smiles, all polite. Oops, maybe he patted him a bit harder than he thought. Bradley can feel the heat of his skin through his clothes. He keeps his hand on Colin’s shoulder, in case Colin feels a bit wobbly from all those cokes.

~#~

Bradley sits next to Colin in make-up. They have to keep still. Bradley talks out of the side of his mouth while Maria adjusts his hair.

“That kid really liked you,” Bradley says, “and his mum thought you were adorable.” Bradley’s hand sneaks out, seeks the warmth of Colin’s forearm with the back of his finger, strokes him, making sure he follows the direction of the hairs. His hands love Colin, want him to pay them attention. He can tell by the minute adjustment in Colin’s posture that he’s noticed. Sometimes Colin wriggles, other times he squirms, but he always reacts.

Colin shrugs. Bradley feels the muscles tense. “Seemed like a really sweet kid,” he says.

“I never knew you liked children, Colin,” says Bradley.

“I don’t like children, I’m a vegetarian,” says Col, deadpanning. After a couple of seconds, he lets out a guffaw. Bradley stares at the mirror for a moment or two before he barks out a surprised laugh.

Under Colin’s surface walls of charm and niceness, the brown onion skin of his personality, there is layer upon layer of fascinating, fleshy, Colin-ness. There’s the off-colour humour layer, and the layer of magic-ness, then there’s a dark, bleak layer of insecurity and doom, and then there’s a secret layer under that, which can only be accessed by ninjas.

~#~

Bradley bounds onto set.

“Col, Colin, Cols,” he says, bouncing on his toes. Colin has a script in his hand. He looks up and smiles. Bradley waits for the dimples, the sly corner-of-eye look, and grins triumphantly when he’s rewarded with them. He leans in and punches Colin (gently! He’s not a monster!) on the upper arm. Colin winces, but only a little bit, and doesn’t stop smiling.

“Cols, come with me, we’re going to get some lunch, come on Cols,” Bradley says, hauling him to his feet. “Come on, Cols, you must be starving, I heard a rumour that there was delicious soy-based gloop on offer today.”

Colin flashes him a resigned look. “I already ate,” he says, but he’s getting to his feet.

Bradley frowns, rubs Colin’s shoulder, which hunches. “You’re too bony,” he says. “Eat more. What did you find to eat on set anyway? ” He feels Colin’s skin wriggle minutely under his clothes.

Colin’s face dimples and his eyes crinkle with mischief. “Put it this way,” he says, “you know that kid who was on set yesterday? Well, we won’t be seeing him again.”

Bradley’s laugh doubles him over. “What happened to all your plant-eating principles, Morgan?”

“I was pretty hungry.”

Colin’s face looks almost sad for a moment and then it splits into a shit-eating grin. Bradley laughs, delighted, shoves at Col’s leg with his knee, touches a warm finger to Col’s wrist.

Bradley’s special. No-one else is allowed under Colin’s first and second and third skins like this, to the Colin underneath, the Colin that actually likes being touched. Bradley can’t help himself, he touches Colin hundreds of times every day. He’s addicted.

Colin rewards him for these touches with sidelong looks, coquettish glances through his eyelashes, jokes and self-deprecating shrugs. Bradley could watch Colin all day, waiting for these tiny signals that Colin has noticed him.

Because Colin is brilliant, and most of all because Colin is at his most brilliant for Bradley.

~#~

Angel and Katie are introverts too, at least compared to Bradley, and Bradley enjoys getting in their personal space.

Bradley has a big heart, he loves everyone openly and without prejudice.

He loves Katie and Angel, he loves Anthony and Richard, but most of all he loves Colin. Of course he loves Colin. Everybody loves Colin.

He loves, and touches, and maddens everyone on the set until they’re all half in love with him, and it’s brilliant. By being sunny-natured and warm, he can coax people to open up, like rosebuds in the sun.

Bradley loves this job. He loves the fighting and the action scenes and the banter, he loves being Prince Arthur, and playing a role he was born for. Brilliant. It’s all brilliant.

Most of all he loves his co-star, who is private, and quiet, and hates to be touched, except by ninjas. He loves enigmatic, self-deprecating Colin, with his shy smile, sly eyes, and fey bone structure, who also happens to be the most extraordinary actor Bradley has ever seen. When Colin is in character, he pulls everyone else along with him, makes them all up their game.

Bradley’s drunk on Colin. He’s intoxicated by Colin’s power and his talent.

~#~

Bradley holds Colin’s sleeve, tells him to “shhhh!” – they’re giggling too loudly. When the pizza delivery bloke arrives, and Katie comes to the door, Bradley whisks Colin round the corner so Katie won’t see, and they stifle their giggles while they listen to the conversation.

“Pizza for Miss McGrath?” says the pizza guy.

“What? I didn’t order pizza?” says Katie, and the puzzled note in her voice is just the funniest thing ever. But then Col lets out an explosive kind of guffaw, despite Bradley’s best efforts to hush him, and they’re rumbled. “Wait a second,” she says, and he thinks “uh-oh,” hears footsteps, sees a frowning McGrath stalking round the corner. 

She stops, hand on hip, glaring.

“Bradley!”

As if the prank was all his idea, and although it was, her accusatory tone is totally unfair, because it’s Colin making all the noise, not him; Bradley’s as quiet as a mouse. Not to mention the fact that Col’s an Irish pixie, and they’re well known for being pranksters and tricksters, so Colin should get the blame. But everyone thinks Colin is a total innocent. It’s those puppy-dog eyes. Bradley used to think he did good puppy-dog eyes, but that was before he met Colin. Colin is a puppy-dog-eye ninja.

Later, they’re all eating pizza in McGrath’s room, except Colin, because Bradley forgot to order one without cheese. Bradley brags, because ordering pizza for someone who didn’t order pizza is the BEST practical joke, and McGrath lets out an incredulous huff.

“Bradley, seriously, that’s the lamest prank ever,” she says.

Colin laughs. “S’ true, Bradley, it’s pretty lame.” And Bradley is hurt by his betrayal. Bloody Irish prank Mafia. He retaliates by taking the last piece of pizza.

“You were laughing hard enough, Morgan,” he says between mouthfuls, “and anyway I’d like to see you do better.”

~#~

One rainy Tuesday he tracks Colin down where he’s sitting in a dark corner with his earphones in, reading through his script. “Cols!” Bradley says, running up to Colin, shoving his shoulder hard, wedging himself in next to Colin, tugging an earphone out of Colin’s ear and flicking Colin’s earlobe. He puts the earphone in his own ear; Colin’s learning spells again. Bradley’s leg is lined up along Colin’s. Colin shifts so that they’re not touching, turns his shoulder minutely away.

“Bradley!”

There’s a note of resigned protest in his voice, as if he's wanting privacy but doesn’t want to be rude. Bradley sighs, puts the earphone back down in Colin’s lap, pouts, and walks away. Because sometimes the introverts need to escape from him, sometimes he crowds their space a bit too much, or at the wrong time. He knows that; he’s not completely insensitive.

~#~

Another time he finds them all happily sitting together in Katie’s room, not interacting, like some sort of little introspective coven, Katie reading some door-wedge book, Angel strumming her guitar, quietly, and Colin fingering a dog-eared script, listening peacefully to some obscure indie no-hope band on his earphones.

Angel frowns at him when he calls them boring introverts. “Bradley,” she says, in that fond, exasperated  voice she reserves especially for him, “just because we just need personal space sometimes doesn’t mean we are introverted. It just means we are normal.”

Bradley ignores the implied “unlike some people,” and pulls a face. “I don’t care what you call it,” he says, “you’re all boring.”  

Bradley upsets the dynamic. He can’t sit still for more than two minutes without getting in their faces. He jiggles, tickles Colin, tweaks Katie’s hair, fusses and fiddles with Angel’s guitar case, until they yell at him to go away. He feels left out. It makes him feel like a child. He stalks out of the room, banging the door behind him, and goes for a solitary run in the dark.

But Colin is a genius, and a brilliant friend, and Bradley loves him forever, because Colin buys him a sketch book and some pencils and encourages him to draw, and now when everyone wants to retreat into their shells, he can sit with them and sketch. He still jiggles and whistles and mutters under his breath, but he’ll sit still for up to ten minutes at a time on the floor, his shoulder abutting Colin’s knee, and they’re all very complimentary about his drawings.

He remembers having a teacher at school—Mrs Bradshaw, or was it Miss Turnbull?—who encouraged him to draw when he was feeling fidgety. Bradley loves to draw. It’s one of the activities that he can lose himself in, like football.

He draws pictures of the cast and crew doing funny stuff:  Katie batting a wasp away from her hair, the exasperated look that appeared on Angel’s face when she bit into her turkey sandwich and found that Bradley had replaced it with replica food from the props department, Richard wearing Morgana’s wig.

Mostly he draws Colin. He is obsessed with Colin’s bones: his cheekbones, collarbones, splayed fingers, delicate knucklebones, hunched shoulders, taut thighs, long thumbs. He sketches body parts. He zooms in on prominent elbows, bony knees, angular ankles.

“Colin is my muse,” he says to all and sundry, as he sketches Col smirking at him from behind his script, or leaning up against the wall with his legs crossed.

~#~

Colin’s sitting next to him on the minibus, earphones in, fiddling with his iPod. His thumb selects some mournful band’s name.

Bradley jiggles about, gleeful, absolutely unable to contain the feeling of anticipation. Colin frowns at him. Katie frowns at him. Angel frowns at him. They’re all beginning to look suspicious. Bradley sits on his hands and presses his lips together to stop himself from giving the game away.

The expression on Colin’s face when he presses play and nearly jumps out of his skin is absolutely priceless. It’s a good thing Bradley’s got a seatbelt on or he’d have fallen off his chair.

It’s been really tricky reprogramming Col’s iPod so that all the emo music titles jump to 1970s and 1980s rock anthems, but absolutely worth it.

“Just you watch it, James,” says Colin, all mock-ferocious, “I will have my revenge,” and Bradley bursts out laughing, because Colin a genius in many things, but he’s rubbish at practical jokes.

“In your dreams,” he splutters, and Colin pouts.

Angel laughs. “Colin, you’re adorable when you sulk,” she says, and Colin pointedly turns his back on her, or at least his side, because it’s difficult turning your back when you’re strapped into a minibus.

But Colin forgives him soon enough, and they take an earbud each and sing along to “Fat Bottomed Girls” all the rest of the way. The girls yell at them to stop, but Bradley flips them a finger and they end up filming the whole thing instead.

All in all, it’s going really brilliantly.

~#~

When the knights join the cast, and he’s got people to play football and Frisbee with between takes, it’s not quite so oppressive being closeted with the introverts. But sometimes he misses it, misses Colin. At such times he disciplines himself to sit quietly with him, or Katie and Angel, just sketching, while they study their scripts, or knitting patterns, or whatever boring introvert-y thing it is that they’re into now. It gets easier, sitting still, as long as he can feel Colin’s leg, solid alongside his arm.

Colin doesn’t eat enough. Bradley worries about him. Bradley buys him walnuts, and gets his dad to send peanut butter, the real stuff from California. Colin scoops it gratefully out of the jar into his too-skinny face, and Bradley beams with pride.

Colin orders Bradley a portfolio case for his drawings, and Bradley stores it under his bed, where it can’t fall into the wrong hands (i.e., Katie’s).

~#~

It’s about time he got to the bottom of Colin’s deeper onion-skin layers.

“Colin,” says Bradley, one rare night off in a dimly lit Cardiff pub, “do you have like a…” he waves his hand expressively and sighs. “Girlfriend, boyfriend, significant other, whatever?” Bradley’s broken up with his latest amour, and is feeling a bit pensive. He’s never heard Col talk about anyone special, never seen him with anyone.

Colin shakes his head, purses his lips together. Bradley puts his hand on Col’s wrist where he can feel the blood pulsing under his skin.

“I don’t mean to pry,” lies Bradley.

Colin laughs. “Then don’t.”

There’s a pause, and then Bradley nudges him, lips twitching, gives him an expectant, raised eyebrow. Colin laughs again, although Bradley hasn’t made a joke, and takes a sip of his beer.

“There used to be someone,” he says, looking away, “but it didn’t work out, because he was… he was… really…erm…”

Colin’s face is all serious now, his Adam’s apple is working up and down, and Bradley’s beginning to regret starting this conversation, because he doesn’t want Col to be sad, but on the other hand he does want to know, so he just keeps uncharacteristically quiet. Col will tell him about it if he wants to. Col looks back at him, eyes glistening in the wan light, looking tense at the memory.

“Controlling,” Colin breathes. There’s a world of pain in that single word, and Colin shows it all in one expressive look.

Bradley understands, and exhales suddenly at the sudden feeling of rage and hatred that pounds into his gut. _Someone hurt Colin,_ he thinks. He puts a protective arm round Colin’s shoulder. He doesn’t ask Colin who it was, because if he ever knew, he would kill him.

~#~

Bradley loves spending time with all the cast, they’re like family now, but it’s best when it’s just himself and Colin. They make up ridiculous scenarios involving their fellow cast members, Bradley sketches them, and Colin snorts with laughter. They clutch onto each other and giggle, and he can feel the heat of Colin’s skin through his clothes. Sometimes Colin’s arms snake round him, which makes him so happy he could burst. Because Colin’s not tactile like Bradley, so it means that he’s special, Colin trusts him. This is what it means to be happy; this is what it means to have a best mate.

“Draw Eoin kissing Katie,” says Colin, on one such occasion. Bradley laughs, and he sketches Katie and Eoin. He puts Katie in Eoin’s clothes and dresses Eoin in one of Morgana’s gowns, and they giggle so hard that Bradley has tears in his eyes, and Col has to blow his nose. He slips the sketch into his folio case, and they watch a Harry Potter movie that has been dubbed in French.

They make up French spells.

“J’expect le patronum,” says Colin. He smirks. “One nil.”

Bradley chuckles. “Le leviosa du wingardium,” he says. “One all.”

Colin looks faintly constipated while he roots around desperately in his head for another spell. “Oh. Ah. Erm. I know. Erm. Je sais.” He nods.

Bradley rolls his eyes. “Get on with it, Morgan. Allez!”

Colin holds up a triumphant finger. “Les totales de petrifiques!”

Bradley groans. Damn, Col’s good at this. It’s two-one and Colin’s laughing at him. The humiliation.

“Le kadavra de l’avada,” says Bradley, eventually. It’s a desperate move.

“You can’t have that one. It’s an unforgiveable curse,” Colin says, pursing his lips up smugly. Bradley pushes Colin off the bed, but Colin grabs him and they both end up in a squawking, messy, ticklish heap. Bradley falls asleep on Col’s bed with Col’s feet snuggled under his thighs for warmth.

~#~

It’s around then that weird things start happening.

Eoin and Katie are shooting a scene; Bradley and Colin have a rare couple of hours free and decide to watch. Remembering Bradley’s drawing, he and Colin exchange nudges and wordless glances throughout, which is thoroughly distracting for the actors, and Katie shouts at Bradley to stop sniggering. They slink away, sheepish.

Colin sends Bradley to her trailer later on to say sorry. Bradley knocks on the door and lets himself in without waiting to be asked.

He’s only slightly surprised when he discovers that she’s not alone, and he’s a little bit thrilled that he’s surprised her mid-snog with another woman. He’s just about to back away, after storing that up for later enjoyment, when they break apart and he realises that she’s snogging the lips off Eoin, who’s dressed in one of Morgana’s dresses.

Just like his drawing.

Weird.

He backs away, apologetic, and runs off to find Colin in his trailer. Katie is yelling at him but he can’t hear what she’s saying. Bradley thunders up the steps, barges in, clutches Colin’s shoulder. Colin has a resigned expression on his face, his “humouring-Bradley” expression, not one of Bradley’s favourites. Bradley takes a moment to tickle Colin so he drops his book and his face returns to one of the acceptable expressions, the “all right Bradley, you’ve got my full attention now, you charming yet irritating fucker” one in this case.

“You’ll never guess what I just saw,” says Bradley with what he hopes is an enigmatic smile.

Colin purses his lips. “A koala?” he suggests lips quirking up. “No—a battleship. No, you look far to excited. I know, Rudolph Ferdinand?”

“It’s Rio Ferdinand, and no,” says Bradley. Honestly, Colin is hopeless with names, footballers’ names doubly so. But then Colin’s smirking at him, and he realises he’s been had. Bradley barks out a laugh, doubles up. Colin always does that to him.

Bradley wipes the tears from his eyes. “No, no, it’s weirder than that,” he says, shifting the weight from one foot to another in his excitement. “Guess, guess, guess, go on Cols.” Cols screws his face up, lets out a little laugh. “Damian Beckham?”

Bradley smacks him, gently, on the arm. “No, no Cols, it was Katie! Katie snogging Eoin, like in the picture I drew last night. And Eoin, get this, Eoin was wearing Katie’s dress! Like in my drawing!”

Colin’s mouth drops open. “Away on! You are actually kidding me, right? This is like the time with Richard and Millie’s wig, right?”

But Bradley isn’t. “NO! I’m not, not this time, I swear,” he says, hands on Colin’s shoulders, opening his eyes wide so Colin can see inside him, that he’s not lying. “I thought Katie was kissing another girl at first. It was kind of hot, actually.”

“Urgh!” says Colin, pulling a mock-disgusted face.

“What’s up, Colin? Don’t you find the idea of two girls kissing hot?”

Colin chuckles. “No! Two boys kissing, maybe!”

“That’s a great idea for a porno,” Bradley says.

Bradley adopts his “sleazy-voiceover” voice.

“Colin Morgan,” he purrs, steps closer to Colin. “Saves the woooorld. Agaiinnn. And in his spare tiiiime. Gets off on watching boys kissiiiing.”

The idea of Colin pulling himself off while he watches two boys kissing is sizzling hot. In Bradley’s head, the two boys are already naked, tugging at each other breathlessly while they kiss. One of them might be Bradley. The other one might be Colin. He’s not quite sure how that will work, but the details are irrelevant.

Wow. Bradley’s got some great new material for his wankbank today.

He can smell Colin’s breath. “Wait a minute,” he says. “Do you have contraband?”

Colin grins, reaches behind himself, brings out a brown paper bag.

Bradley peers inside. “Pear drops!” Bradley crows. “Thank you, Ma Morgan!” Life doesn’t get much better than this.

He forgets about the picture. But not about all the hot, same-sex kissing. He remembers that.

~#~

“Draw Rupert with half a beard,” says Colin, another night, and Bradley snorts, and sketches a hilarious picture of Rupert with whiskers down one side of his face.

He frowns a bit the next day, though, when Rupert turns up to make-up half-shaved, all apologetic, muttering about dropping his last razor down the sink. Bradley exchanges a look with Colin, who’s creasing up with laughter at his expression. They nudge one another conspiratorially, and giggle. Col’s bony elbow sticks in Bradley’s upper arm, and he loves it. Colin never touches anyone except him.

“Did I do that with my magic?” Bradley whispers.

Colin shrugs and smiles. “Shhh!” he says with his finger to his lips. “Keep the magic secret!”

Then he’s filming a fight scene – he loves those, the delicate choreography, his sore muscles afterwards. So it’s another great day on set, and by the time he goes to bed he’s forgotten all about Rupert’s half beard. But he still remembers Colin’s comment about boys kissing, and finds himself getting hard when he thinks about it.

For a split second while he’s palming his cock, he wonders whether Colin’s remembered it too, whether Colin’s tugging himself off this very second thinking about boys kissing. That mental image pushes him over the edge, and he cries out as his come pulses over his stomach.

~#~

They’re sitting in Colin’s room. Angel has just popped to the loo. “Col,” says Bradley in a conspiratorial whisper, “do you think I’m really making stuff happen with my drawings?”

Colin smiles, shifts his weight a little. “Yeah, sure!” he says.

“What shall I make happen next?” says Bradley.

“I think the question, Bradley, is whether you’re going to use your powers for good or for bad,” says Colin.

Bradley thinks for about a second too long about that. “For good, obviously,” he says, eventually. “But I’m not sure how to draw world peace.” He pouts a bit, then brightens. “But in the meantime, I do know how to draw Richard playing table tennis.”

They’re sniggering over a drawing when Angel comes back from the loo and gives them one of her resigned, head-on-one-side, pursed-lip, Bradley-and-Colin-are-being-idiots-again expressions. She has a bank of them reserved for such occasions.

They lift the picture for her perusal: Richard is clutching a table tennis bat, and a cartoon bubble emerges from his mouth. “I don’t believe it,” the bubble says. In the background Bradley jumps up and down in triumph.

But the next day, when for the first time Bradley actually does defeat Richard at ping-pong, he’s the one that doesn’t believe it.

~#~

They’re in Cardiff, filming some scenes on set. Between takes Colin’s fiddling with his new phone, trying to get the camera to work.

Bradley’s idly doodling a picture of the biggest guy in the crew. He’s drawn him hiding behind a cupboard door in Gaius’s chambers on the set, stark bollock naked. Merlin and Gaius are on the other side of the door having an animated discussion on camera.

“Hey, Bradley,” says Colin, voice all soft and fond. There’s a brief ‘click’. But Bradley’s getting really into his drawing and has only half an ear open, doesn’t respond.

Colin comes over to have a look at the picture, and snorts with laughter.

“I’d pay money to see that,” says Colin.

Bradley grabs Col’s phone, looks at the photo Colin’s taken of him. He’s sitting on the floor in his armour, frowning at his sketch book. “Urgh,” he says, starting to delete it.

Colin snatches the phone off him. “No, you don’t,” he says with a grin, backing away, holding the phone up above his head. He runs off, cackling.

Bradley surges to his feet, chases Col down and tackles him to the ground. He straddles Colin and tickles him into submission. Colin’s limbs splay out and flail, and his muscles all bunch up while he giggles and squawks his protests.

“Let that be a lesson to you, Morgan,” Bradley shouts, finally, brandishing the phone, and both of them end up being told off for getting their hair all dishevelled. It’s brilliant, and what with one thing and another, when he tumbles into bed that night, Bradley’s forgotten about the picture on the phone, and the drawing in his sketch book.

But funnily enough he still hasn’t forgotten the mental image of two boys kissing, nor how it felt to have Colin Morgan stretched out between his legs, hot muscles squirming beneath his weight. His thighs tremble while he wanks furiously into his pillow, and he bites his lip until it bleeds to stop himself from shouting Colin’s name when he comes.

He feels a bit odd, though, when he sees an out-take from that day’s filming. The big guy from props played a trick, surprising Colin and Richard during a scene by springing, naked, out of a cupboard on set.

Bradley wonders if he really does have the power to make things happen by sketching them.

~#~

Colin sits next to him while he drinks his coffee.

“I have magic,” says Bradley. He’s a bit awestruck. He’d known about his introvert-coaxing powers, but this art thing puts him in a different league. He’s up there with Gandalf.

“Yeah?” says Col, smiling. “Actually, about that, Bradley…”

“I can make things happen by the power of art.” Bradley takes a sip of coffee. “Not even Pablo Picasso could do that, you know. Even David Bowie couldn’t do that.” He’s pretty chuffed actually.

Col sighs and pats his arm, which makes Bradley smile. A touch from Colin is a gift to be treasured. He squirrels it away.

~#~

Bradley thinks he might be a little bit obsessed with Colin.

He wants to tease out the essence of Colin into alabaster and midnight strands, and intertwine them with threads of Bradley, weave them together into a fabric which is Bradley-and-Colin, myself-and-Colin, alabaster-gold-and-blue, a shining beautiful new cloth.

Bradley wants to map every inch of Colin with his fingers and his tongue, find out all the spaces where they fit together, and mark them as his. He wants to uncover all Colin’s secrets and hug them to himself. The strength of his desire squeezes his chest. He can hardly breathe for it.

And Bradley has the power at his fingertips to make people do things.

So, in secret, in his room late at night, he starts to sketch the things that he dreams about. He draws Colin’s lips and tongue enveloping Bradley’s fingers, imagines the feeling of wet heat as Colin sucks and licks. He draws himself, between Colin’s thighs, his hand snaking between them, his mouth stretched round the tip of Colin’s knob. He sketches Colin’s taut rump, Bradley’s thumb inserted into Colin’s opening, thumb ring showing.

He imagines the feel of Colin’s balls heavy in his palm, wet and spit-slick, the sound of Colin moaning his name. He imagines Colin’s face, as he comes, draws it taut with desire, veins throbbing in his temples.

Deep down, maybe, Bradley doesn’t believe in magic, really he doesn’t, but when he sees his heart’s dearest wishes laid out for him on the floor of his room, he can’t help hoping for a miracle. He’s only human.

He tries to ignore the nagging voice in his head that tells him that if he does have magic, and uses it to coerce Colin to do all these things he fantasises about, it’s all a bit non-consensual isn’t it?

And he hates himself a little bit, because he knows how guarded Colin is, knows about the bad experience Colin had with a controlling ex-boyfriend.

But he doesn’t stop.

~#~

It’s Angel’s birthday and they take a break from filming to go out in Cardiff.

Bradley takes time getting ready. He wants to look sharp. He wears a suit that shows off his broad shoulders, his hair is artfully tousled. They’re meeting the others at a discreet bar. The girls are already there when they arrive, and they’ve made an effort, Angel stunning in yellow, and Katie managing to look like a model even though she’s dressed down in jeans and killer heels.

His eyes widen when he sees Colin, looking mouth-wateringly trim in elegant slim-fit trousers, topped off with a blue-silk button-down shirt that matches his eyes. Katie must have been on at him to ditch the plaid for once. When Colin sends a coy smile his way, Bradley can hardly breathe. He puts a finger under his collar and loosens his tie a little to cover his confusion and the ready blush that he can feel staining his cheeks. 

Bradley and the Knights are on the beer, the girls drink shots, and even Colin has a shot of vodka in his coke. They sit in a booth playing “Mafia” and “Wink Murder”. Bradley thinks Eoin is cheating but can’t work out how.

But then there’s a girl, who sidles into their midst and starts to crowd Colin’s space. When she deposits herself on Colin’s lap and starts declaring her undying love, poor Colin looks like he wants the floor to swallow him up.

Bradley comes to his rescue. He’s Colin’s knight in shining armour. He tugs the girl away. “Excuse me, lovely lady,” he tells her, “I think your friends are looking for you.” He holds her hand, drags her over to a pocket of expectant, giggling faces, and smiles reassuringly. He poses for a several mobile-phone pictures, chats to them, charms them and buys soft drinks.

When he comes back, Colin is gone, so Bradley goes after him like a good mate, calls his mobile. He’s hiding in plain sight, on a park bench outside.

Bradley bounds up to him. “Cols!” he says, breath coalescing like smoke in the cool night air. “You ran away, coward!” He tugs Colin to his feet, still euphoric with beer and bonhomie. Colin’s shivering, even though it’s August, he needs more flesh on his bones. He smiles, face full of crinkle-eyed wonder, as if Bradley had rescued him from certain death, not just a drunken, over-affectionate fangirl. His shoulders feel a little tense under Bradley’s hands. Bradley rubs them encouragingly and tries not to look too goofy, too smitten, but it’s hard because Colin looks like a wet dream tonight.

“I realised something,” Colin says, head tilted on one side, still smiling at him as if he’s something special, cheekbones stark in the orange streetlights. “When that girl was all over me, trying to get me to go home with her, there was only one person I wanted to come home with, tonight.”

“Oh yeah,” says Bradley, grinning at Col, who has only had one shot of vodka, but is all pink-cheeked and breathless. “And who might that be, then? Eoin? Rupert?” Bradley’s knuckles brush against Colin’s cold hands.

“Stop it, you big tease,” Colin says, stepping in even closer, an intent look on his face that makes Bradley gulp. He whispers in Bradley’s ear so that his breath tickles. “It’s you, of course,” he says, and he leans in, warm lips ghosting across Bradley’s cheek, touching Bradley’s lips, gently at first and then with increasing urgency. “You know it’s you, you in your fuck-me suit, and all,” he carries on between kisses, his long fingers rubbing Bradley’s scalp, his body brushing up against Bradley’s hip, clothes rustling faintly. “Sex on two legs is what you look like. Made for sin.”

This is what Bradley dreams of, what he wants, what he needs, and he lets a low moan escape from his throat when Colin lowers his head to tongue and suck at his neck.

“Fuck, yeah, Morgan,” he says. “What have we been waiting for, all this time?” He pulls Colin closer. “Come home with me, Cols.” 


	2. Palms Sticky as Bluebeard's

He can’t define the tender sensation that blossoms in his chest when he sees his Colin, stretched out, naked and vulnerable on his bed. Colin’s not hunched and tense any more, he’s relaxed and dreamy-eyed. Bradley realises that he is seeing the final layer, the inner Colin, and the realisation fills him with warmth.

“Colin,” he whispers, feeling something like awe at this privilege. He cherishes this special inner Colin with his tongue and his fingers. He pins Colin between his thighs, splays one hand across Colin’s chest and maps the delicate lines of his muscles with the other. He brings his lips and tongue to Colin’s nipples, paints cool patterns on Colin’s skin with his wet tongue and hot breath, relishes the feeling of Colin writhing under him, his salty taste.

Colin’s not quite as he imagined. Yes, his skin is pale, and there are fascinating swirls and trails of dark hairs. But there’s more: a fine bluish tracery of veins, a faint blush that blooms under the skin behind the marks of Bradley’s fingers, minute adjustments of muscles that respond to Bradley’s every touch. Bradley admires the shining-eyed, adoring expression that beams from Colin’s face. He suspects that his own expression mirrors it when he touches the back of his finger to Colin’s chin.

“Bradley,” Colin replies, weaving his fingers into Bradley’s hair and pulling his head down for a kiss. Bradley nuzzles gratefully at Colin’s throat, feels Colin’s pulse with his lips. Colin arches his neck, inviting him to leave his mark there, and pushes Bradley’s head down his torso.

Bradley tucks away the small, needy noises Colin makes, the whimpers, gasps and moans, tucks them under his skin, hugs them greedily to himself, because they’re his, Colin’s precious gift to him.

Bradley coaxes Colin’s prick, wraps his lips round the head, slurps with his tongue, and bobs down the shaft.

“Christ, Bradley,” says Colin. “Fuck, yeah, suck me off. That’s… Christ…” Colin’s fingers dig into Bradley’s scalp, not too gently, his hips flexing. “I’m not going to last, Jesus, fuck, your fucking lips, so perfect Bradley,” Bradley keeps one hand on Colin’s chest, presses him down into the mattress.

The obscenities that roll off this good Catholic boy’s filthy tongue while Bradley sucks him off go straight to Bradley’s cock. He groans, spit bubbling round the seal he’s made with his lips. He breaks the seal with his fingers to wet them, pushes his hand between Colin’s thighs, presses one, thick spit-slicked fingertip into Colin’s hole.

“Oh my holy fuck!” says Colin, and he’s coming, pulsing in thick bitter spurts. 

 _Essence of Morgan_ , Bradley thinks. He drinks it all in greedily.

He draws himself up, clamps his thighs around Colin’s hips, feels Colin’s heart thudding, Colin’s chest heaving under his hand.  He’s hard, so hard, and Colin’s limp and pliant, rapt, trembling between his tense thighs. He shuffles forwards on his knees, unthreads one of Colin’s hands from his hair, and wraps it around his prick.

“Colin, fuck,” he says, his voice shaking. “Colin, please.” Colin smiles shyly, teases him at first with a thumb across his slit, before setting up a relentless rhythm. Bradley feels the orgasm build and radiate, an exquisite tension in his thighs, and he comes with a shout, thick white tendrils coating Colin’s chest, his hand.

They lie, wrapped, for a contented while. Bradley’s hand is covered in come.

Colin chuckles. “Palms sticky as Bluebeard’s” he says.

Bradley props himself up on one elbow, and frowns, tracing circles on Colin’s chest hair. “That’s a bit gruesome. Is it meant to mean something? Wasn’t Bluebeard the guy with all the murdered wives? Are you going to murder me and hide me in a cupboard or something?”

Colin punches his arm. “No, eejit!” he says, grinning. “It’s from a poem about blackberry picking. It always leaves traces, blackberry picking does. Evidence of sin. Sticky fingers. That’s all.”

“I’ve left traces on you,” says Bradley, smirking, and Colin chuckles.

~#~

Bradley’s in the shower, rinsing all the mess off, singing to himself in the mirror, and he’s feeling pretty much on top of the world right now, because, well, _Colin_. And he’s looking forward to wrapping his naked body back around Col’s, all entangled limbs and heat and sweat, his golden hairs mixed with Col’s wiry black ones. He’s looking forward to falling asleep all meshed together. So he’s kind of surprised when he hears a click, like the door to the hotel room opening, and retreating footsteps like the sound of someone sneaking out.

Puzzled, he goes back into the room with a towel chastely positioned round his waist, and Colin’s gone, a palpable absence. Bradley’s breath is sucked from him with an ‘oof’ when he sees his portfolio open on the floor, X-rated Bradley-And-Colin sketches littering the floor.

Shit.

He runs after Colin like that, still wet, dressed in just a towel. Bangs on his door. Colin doesn’t answer.

“Colin,” says Bradley, and he knows he’s in there, can hear someone moving around, “Colin, open the fucking door, let me in, mate, I need to talk to you, I can explain, Col!” his voice is cracking a bit now. This… this… thing with Colin, it’s… it’s the most perfect thing that’s ever happened to him. He can’t believe he’s fucked it up already.

The door opens just an inch, on the chain, and Bradley hears Colin’s voice, tight and furious, tinged with something else he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Bradley, what the fuck?”

“Col, I know what it looks like and I’m sorry.”

“You were trying to control me, but. You were, weren’t you. With the pictures.” Bradley can just see Colin’s face through the crack in the door. Col’s mouth is still flushed but it’s set in a line. Colin’s breath’s coming hard, in angry spurts.

Bradley curses himself. He can’t deny it. “Col, just open the door.” Fuck, this is stupid, how can they have a conversation like this with 2 inches of veneered fibreboard between them? He tries to jam his bare foot in the door.

“No. Bradley I…” Colin’s voice is cut off. Bradley imagines him shaking his head. “You really believe in those pictures. You’re trying to control me. Why would you do that? Why? Tell me you’re not.”

Bradley wants to protest his innocence, tell Colin it wasn’t like that, but that nagging voice in his head, his sneaky bastard conscience, won’t let him say it.  

“Say something, Bradley.  Fuck’s sake.”

But Bradley can’t.

Colin’s voice is so low it’s almost a moan. “This is so fucked up. I wish I… I never meant it to carry on so long... why did you have to do that, Bradley?”

“Never meant what to carry on so long? Colin just let me in, we need to talk.”

“No. Just leave me alone, Bradley. I’ve had one relationship with a controlling man. I can’t put myself through that again.” Bradley feels the pressure from the door on his foot.

“I’m not controlling,” says Bradley, through the closing door. “I’m not, Colin, I swear…”

Colin’s talking again, although Bradley can hardly hear him. He has to strain and put his ear to the crack.

“Just go away, Bradley.”

Bradley wants to punch the person that made Colin sound all broken and wrecked like that. But he can’t, because it was him. Bradley did that. Colin closes the door. Bradley punches it instead. His knuckles start to bleed. Bastard door. Bastard conscience. Bastard Bradley. Shit, fuck, shit.

~#~

Now when Bradley touches Colin, which he still can’t resist doing about a hundred times every day, his fingers still tingle with the connection. But Colin flinches. Bradley can’t bear to see the pain he is inflicting, so gradually he stops. Their banter is awkward, the silences between them growing.

Bradley still bounces onto the set, still acts all cheerful. He bounds up to Colin.

“Colin! Cols!” he shouts, a smile plastered onto his face. But he doesn’t touch, not any more, because when he touches Colin, a pinched expression flits across his face, and that’s an expression that should never happen, and Bradley hates himself for making Colin look and feel like that, hates himself so much that it crushes his windpipe and squeezes the air out of his lungs. No-one should make Colin look like that. No-one, not even Bradley, is allowed to hurt Colin.

One afternoon they’re sitting in Katie’s trailer, the silence less comfortable and more awkward than it used to be. Bradley has his sketch pad, and he draws a moment where he sees his and Colin’s hands entwined, Colin wearing his ring, and wishes with all his heart that he could make it come true.

“What are you drawing, today, Bradley,” says Angel. Bradley shrugs and shows them the picture. Colin inhales sharply and a hunted expression flits across his face. He leaves the trailer, slams the door, stalks off, shoulders hunched. Bradley follows him to his trailer but Colin pushes him away.

“Leave me alone, Bradley,” he hisses.

 Bradley’s breath hitches. His eyes sting at the unfairness of it all.

He tries to speak. “Col?” he says, “Colin?” he steps forward a bit. “I didn’t mean to make you feel trapped,” he says, and his voice is trembling. “God, I didn’t want… that’s not what I… It doesn’t work if you don’t want it, too, Colin, please…”

Colin steps down to him. “Bradley, it’s not… I can’t… just go,” he says, mouth turned down at the corners. He pushes Bradley, hard. Bradley’s eyes fill with tears.

Colin’s eyes widen when he sees Bradley’s tears. “Stop it, just stop it," he says. He dashes his hand across his own eyes and retreats into his trailer. His door bangs shut and Bradley’s left outside, mouth open, heart exposed, flayed open for anyone to see.

“This isn’t me being controlling,” he whispers, uncaring rain mingling with unmanly tears, “it’s just me being… me.”

~#~

Colin’s sitting by himself with his head in his hands, and Bradley can’t bear it.

He knows he’s not meant to touch Colin any more, but he can’t bear to see him so miserable, so he comes and sits next to him, nudges him with his shoulder. Colin looks up at him, eyes bleary and awash. Bradley puts a hand on his scrawny shoulder, Colin flinches.

“I’m sorry, Col,” says Bradley, eyes wide open so Colin sees how honest he’s being. “Please…”

Colin shakes his head. “It’s not you, Bradley,” he says, gulping. “I know you’re not really controlling or manipulative, I know that really.”

Bradley almost laughs.

“Well, then,” he starts. Maybe Col has forgiven him after all. But Colin’s still shaking his head and he looks guilty, ashamed.

“It’s not you that’s the problem, Bradley. There’s something…something… I haven’t told you, and it’s eating me up.”

Bradley frowns. “What?”

“Bradley… I… It was me,” he whispers.

“What? What was you?” Bradley’s puzzled. Colin’s acting like this whole thing was all his fault. And that can’t be right, it was Bradley who fucked it up.

Colin tries again. “Bradley, it wasn’t you. It was me. It was funny at first, and I should have stopped it then, but I carried on with it. I should have stopped sooner. I should have told you, Bradley.” He shakes his head again. Bradley knows this Colin, this is the bleak, self-deprecating version, the self-hating version, and he loves this Colin, loves them all to be honest, but he hasn’t got a clue what he’s going on about.

Colin’s chewing his bottom lip, his forehead’s all tense, like the guilt is eating away at him. “The pictures,” he says. He looks up at Bradley. Bradley’s breath catches at the raw, haunted expression on his face. “The pictures, Bradley. The drawings you did which came true. I set them all up so you’d think it was magic. That was me. I never should have done that. I’m so, so sorry. It was all a set up.”

Bradley’s hand falls from Colin’s shoulder. He stands and backs away, not speaking.

“I mean – all of us did it, really,” says Colin. “But it was my idea. And me who set it up. I thought it would be fun.”

There’s a cold feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. It’s seeping through his abdomen, making him shiver.

“It was a prank,” he says. His voice sounds distant, hard. A gentle sigh escapes Colin. Bradley takes this as confirmation.

“It was meant to be funny,” Colin says. He’s not laughing.

“All of you, laughing at me behind my back.” It all makes awful sense, because let’s face it Bradley’s feelings had never mattered to anyone. He lets out a short, brittle laugh. “Were they all in on it, then, the sex? Were they, _Colin_?” he spits out Colin’s name. “Was that part of the prank, too? Ah yeah, let’s get Bradley to suck Colin’s knob, fucking hilarious”

“Now wait a minute. You were the one who was trying to control me through your art,” says Colin, defensive, standing and poking an accusing finger at Bradley’s chest. “It’s not like you’re all Bradley squeaky fucking clean James.”  His voice is rising.

Bradley’s incredulous, stung. “I don’t know how you can say that. I never meant to control you, Colin.”

“You did, but,” yells Colin, white-faced and furious. “You didn’t deny it, Bradley.”

Bradley pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a moment.

“Do you know what, Colin, I was the happiest man alive when you came back with me that night,” he says, willing his voice to stay calm and steady. “Because, for a while, I’m not sure how long, I’ve been sort of head over heels for you.”

He wills himself to look at Colin’s tense face, at the way Bradley’s words, like pinpricks, deflate his anger.

“I thought, this is perfect,” says Bradley, nodding. He swallows to quell the knot in his chest, takes in a couple of breaths. “But it was all just a bit of fun for you, wasn’t it? Just a prank? Let Bradley think he’s got what he wanted, and then break his fucking heart, that was it, wasn’t it?” 

Colin looks miserable now, grief-stricken, and he’s shaking his head, “No, it wasn’t like that, Bradley, I swear…,” but Bradley is hurting too much to stop.

“Fuck you, Colin fucking Morgan,” says Bradley. His voice is shaking now, and he feels so betrayed he can hardly speak but he bites the words out like darts. “Do you know what? For a moment. No, for the longest time. I thought… I thought I was the one who hurt you. I felt like a first class shit. Because you accused me of manipulating you. You let me carry on thinking that…that… that you were suffering some kind of fucking crisis because of me, when the whole time it was a joke. Was that part of the joke too? Was that all I ever was to you, a big fucking joke? Because I think the world of you, Colin, I really do, but it seems you are unable to extend the same courtesy to me.”

He tries to ignore the way Colin’s face crumples like the world has come crashing down.

“So, yeah, it took you all this time to tell me as well, thanks for that, Colin. Thanks for letting me think I’d fucked up and scared you away with my _manipulativeness_ , thanks a bunch, _mate_.”

“Bradley I’m so sorry,” Colin begins, but Bradley carries on, relentless now in his heartbreak.

“I get it now. I don’t matter at all, do I?   Oh, yeah, Bradley, he’ll be OK, he’s just a big old puppy. Oh yeah. His feelings don’t matter. He loves everyone, his heart is wide, but it’s shallow, he’ll get over it, because he’s only Bradley fucking James.” His voice trembles and tails off.

He turns away, with all the dignity he can muster, and makes it all the way to his hotel room before he allows himself to fall apart.

~#~

For the rest of that ghastly last season’s filming, Bradley learns how to be distant, and cold. It doesn’t come naturally to him. He’s short with Angel and Katie, he hides inside his headphones, speaks in monosyllables. He doesn’t know how many of them were in on it, how far they knew it had gone with Colin, and he can’t bear to find out. There’s a knot in his chest. His feelings are all twisted up.  

Rupert accuses him of sulking; Alex, the new guy, doesn’t know what the hell’s going on. He probably thinks Bradley is a complete tool. Bradley doesn’t care. It’s not up to him to cheer everyone else up any more. They’ve shown him how little they care for his feelings, he’s not going to spare theirs.

He misses Anthony.

He throws himself into his acting, a model of efficiency and professionalism. He decides to distance himself from Merlin, turns down a sixth season, puts it all behind him, chalks it up to experience, starts looking for new projects. He’s cold, blank, distant, careful, all trace of rambunctiousness, puppy-dog playfulness, gone.

He tells everyone who’ll listen that he and Colin get sick of one another during filming. He hopes Colin gets the message: I’m sick of you, you make me sick, sick, sick. Colin hunches over, puts in his headphones, buries his head in a book, and disappears between takes.

Alone and in secret, Bradley continues to draw all the things in his heart. He buys paints, obsesses about the colour of Colin’s skin next to his, alabaster and gold. He sometimes indulges himself by putting his pictures around his room, and falls asleep surrounded by visions of himself and Colin embracing.

In a morbid moment, he looks up the poem about blackberry picking. The poem is poignant, it reminds Bradley of the impossibility of preserving sweet, fleeting moments, of the impermanence of beauty. He finds it painful to read.

He’s brooding one day on set, in the shadows, watching Colin.

“Bradley,” says Angel in her best ‘sympathetic’ voice, but he shrugs her hand off his shoulder and tells her to leave him alone.

But she won’t leave him alone. She comes to his hotel room bearing chocolate and Jack Daniels, forces her way in using soft words and kind eyes. She’s a sympathy ninja, and Bradley finds himself defenceless against her wiles.

They’re sitting on the bed with a large JD in their hands when she says, “I’m sorry about the prank,” touching his arm, and he hasn’t touched anyone for ages, it’s such a relief just to have that contact. He doesn’t touch Colin any more, doesn’t touch anyone, even though _not touching_ makes his hands hurt. “Is that why you’re so upset? Or is there something else? All we did was pretend to bring your pictures to life, Bradley. We thought you’d click sooner, we thought you’d find it funny.”

“You were all laughing at me,” he says, and she’s about to laugh it off, but she’s a sympathy ninja, and the expression in her eyes changes when she looks at him.

“Oh, Bradley,” she says, massaging his shoulder. “We weren’t really laughing at you, I promise. And Colin’s not laughing now. I haven’t seen him smile for weeks. Did something else happen? Did you fight? Bradley?” He can’t speak. His eyes burn. He swallows a large dram of Jack Daniels to ease the knot in his throat.

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter now,” he says, tossing down the dregs of his drink. “It’ll all be over soon, and we’ll never see each other again.” He smiles wanly at her and pushes a strand of hair over her shoulder. “Thanks,” he says, “for the JD, and the chocolate, but most of all for the sympathy. I’m not sure I deserve it. I’ll try to be a bit less churlish.”

~#~

The truth of the matter is that Bradley really is sick of Colin. He’s heartsick, lovesick, and sick with loneliness.

Sometimes he sees Colin standing there, watching him act, watching him fighting. Bradley’s breath freezes and he forgets all his lines and choreography. He wants to drown in that steady gaze, leap into those calm waters and be consumed.

Bradley doesn’t draw on set any more. He only wants to draw Colin, now, but he doesn’t dare. His heart isn’t on his sleeve any more. He has bandaged it up in layers of dignified silence. He sits on his hands, paces, fiddles with his phone instead.

He’s sitting, brooding on set one morning. It’s nearly the end of filming, nearly the end of this whole Merlin adventure which has seen him grow up and have his heart broken.

Make-up have fussed round him, he’s ready to shoot. Colin has asked for a little more time to prepare for an emotional scene. The mood on set is anxious; there’s a lot to be done, and not much time left.  The weather has played havoc with the schedule. Bradley’s fiddling with his phone, waiting for Colin to get his act together. He looks up, and catches Colin looking at him, for an instant, before Colin looks away.

Colin comes up to him in one of the breaks, touches his shoulder gently. Bradley jumps as if he’s been scalded.

“You don’t draw on set any more, Bradley,” says Colin. And Bradley feels his throat constrict, because Colin _noticed_ , and Colin’s hand is on his shoulder. Colin never touches anyone, never. “You OK?” says Colin, and Bradley isn’t.

Bradley shakes his head.

“I know I’m an extrovert, kinaesthetic learner, idiot, whatever,” Bradley says, “I know sometimes I can be arrogant, and overbearing, and people think I’m simple, but I’m not a robot, I have feelings, Morgan.”

His voice trembles and he’s smudging his make-up. He looks at his hands, takes deep breaths, tries to snatch back his equilibrium, but he can’t, not with Colin there, looking at him, touching his shoulder like he _matters_.

“Please,” Bradley whispers, and he’s not sure what he wants. He doesn’t want things to go back to how they were, before Angel’s birthday, because although that was brilliant, and he misses it more than he can say, it’s not what he needs.

Tentatively he reaches up to his shoulder, touches Col’s hand. Col leans forward, whispers in his ear. “Me neither,” he says, and Bradley can hear the shake in his voice, see the tremor in his lip, feel the too-fast thud-thud of his pulse.

Bradley doesn’t know whether he means, “Me neither, I’m not a robot,” or “Me neither, I’m not OK,” or maybe, and he hopes it’s this one, “Me neither, I don’t want things to go back to how they were, I want more than that.”

Colin looks thin, gaunt, pale. Bradley wonders then if he’s sleeping, if he’s eating properly, because he knows what Colin is like. Colin needs looking after.

Colin squeezes his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Bradley,” he says, swallowing, breath condensing in the cold air. “I’m sorry I fucked it up, I mean. Sorry I hurt you. But I’m not sorry about what we did. On Angel’s birthday.”

His lips are inches from Bradley’s, as he speaks. Bradley is mesmerised.

“I wish we could start again, because I swear, I swear I haven’t told a soul. That night was nothing to do with the prank. It was what I wanted. I wanted it so much. For such a long time. You should know that. I hurt you,” Colin’s voice sounds shaky. “And I hate myself for that. I suppose you can’t forgive me, but.”

The tight knot in Bradley’s throat relaxes minutely. He tries a wobbly smile. “Thanks,” he says. He pats Colin’s hand.

Colin doesn’t leave yet. His hand is still on Bradley’s shoulder. It’s warm and steady, Bradley wishes he could keep it there forever. “People think I’m so nice,” Colin says, voice cracking a bit, “but I’m not. I’m an eejit. I just wanted to make you laugh, I love making you laugh.” Bradley leans against the stone wall, rough grains of rock gritty through his hair.

Colin touches his hair and his breath stutters. “I’m so sorry, Bradley,” he whispers. “I’m not sure whether I can ever fix what I’ve broken, but I wanted you to know that… you… you mean the world to me, too.” His hand whispers around from Bradley’s shoulder to his chest, fingers splayed over Bradley’s heart. Colin meets his eyes.

“You and your big heart. I wish I’d cared for it better,” Colin says, tears trapped in his lashes. Bradley resists the urge to thumb them away. “I didn’t know what I had. I squandered it. I know I see you every day, and I make you sick, but I miss you, Bradley James. So much. You have no idea.”

Colin turns and walks away.

Bradley’s stunned. He thinks afterwards he should have gone after Colin. The moment passes and he’s left with just the memory of Colin’s hand on his chest, Colin’s fingers in his hair.

~#~

Filming’s ended now, and he’s been to LA and back, he’s installed himself back in the London flat. Life’s hurtling past. He sees Colin on stage, and at awards ceremonies, and at Katie’s for dinner sometimes, but he keeps his distance, keeps his heart safe. When the flat’s empty, he starts to brood, and sometimes he pulls out his sketches and his paints, lets himself drown in whiskey and regret.

He wakes up on one such evening with a start. Eoin’s unexpectedly back from New York, a couple of days early. He strides into Bradley’s room without knocking, takes in the sight of Bradley, dazed on the floor, an empty bottle of JD in one hand, charcoal in another, drawings and paintings scattered on the floor, shards of Bradley’s broken heart.

“Jesus, Bradley,” he says picking up a picture and understanding far too much. “Fuck, mate, you have to talk to him.” It’s a simple line drawing of Colin’s face, eyes closed while a hand, Bradley’s hand, tell-tale thumb-ring and all, caresses his hair.

The pictures he draws are always bits-of-myself-and-Colin, pieces-of-Colin mixed up with bits-of-Bradley, as if one day he might work out how to get them all in one place again, a real-life flesh-and-blood Colin, all of him, not just remembered fragments, entangled with flesh-and-blood Bradley.

Bradley, always a heart-on-his-sleeve person, Bradley who never has any secrets, Bradley whom everyone can read like an open book, feels utterly exposed. He struggles to his feet, flees to the bathroom, locks himself in. He vomits violently, the JD tasting less good second time round. He splashes cold water on his face, contemplates his next move, groans, and sticks his head in the sink.

When he comes out, Macken’s in the kitchen, brewing coffee, washing the glass, recycling the JD bottle, giving Bradley time.

Bradley’s not a coward, he tells himself. He gathers the precious pictures and squirrels them away in his portfolio case, then steps into the kitchen, and sits barefoot at the breakfast bar under Macken’s carefully schooled non-judgemental gaze.

Bradley sips his coffee. “So,” he says. “I suppose you have guessed my guilty secret.” He buries his face in his hands and definitely, definitively, does not shed bitter tears, because that would be terribly unmanly, not to mention unBritish.  But he’s grateful for Eoin’s sympathetic hand on his back, for the homely scent of the coffee.

“Talk to him, eejit,” says Eoin.

But Bradley shakes his head. “I can’t” he says. The words stick in his throat. “I love him, and things are all fucked up between us, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

He hears Eoin’s weight shift from the stool, hears Eoin’s curses about stubborn, emotionally constipated British eejits, finds himself agreeing.

After Eoin’s gone, flying out for a few days in Dublin, he thinks about it, and sketches another picture.

In the drawing Bradley kneels, naked, in front of Colin’s bare feet. Bradley looks anguished. It’s not an erotic image; he looks vulnerable, exposed, hurt, pleading. Colin’s face is not in the picture, only his naked feet.

Bradley snaps it with his phone, types the caption “I might just be a little bit lost, without you. Come and find me?” and sends it before he can change his mind.

He doesn’t know what else he can do. He sits and waits amid the wreckage of his love, one eye on the TV, the other forlornly contemplating a jar of peanut butter he brought back from LA.

He eats, he sleeps, and time passes.

The next time the door goes, Colin steps in, all ears, hunched shoulders and self-deprecation. Bradley’s heart jumps. His hands reach out. They want to touch Colin, want to feel his skin wriggle and flinch and squirm, muscles tensing and bunching under Bradley’s fingers. He shoves them into his pockets.

“Hey, Col,” he says. His voice squeaks a bit. He goes for “nonchalant” and fails. He can’t look at Col’s face, looks at his knobbly knees instead.

Of course he can’t do “nonchalant”. He’s just sent Colin a self-portrait in which he looks like some sort of pathetic, needy basket case. He’s practically pleaded with Colin to come and put him out of his misery, and God, that was really not going to work. He’d blown it, because if there’s one thing that makes blokes run a mile, it’s _neediness_. Plus, the last thing Bradley wants from Colin is a pity fuck. But, by Christ, he doesn’t know how to tell Colin what he needs to say. He turns away, goes to the sofa, sits on his hands.

He can’t look at Colin, because all his carefully-constructed anti-Colin barriers are all already in tatters. Colin Morgan, puppy-dog-eye ninja, could just dissolve them all away with a look, and then he’d be completely lost, all shreds of dignity gone.

“Oh, Bradley,” says Colin softly. Colin crosses the room, sits on the sofa, puts his arm round Bradley, rests his head on Bradley’s. “C’m ’ere. I missed you,” he says, planting a kiss on Bradley’s head. Bradley still can’t look up, but his treacherous arm frees itself from under his thighs and snakes round Col’s waist, he can’t stop it, and Col lets out a little sort of snuffly laugh, and Bradley thinks that maybe things are going to be okay after all.

“Me, too,” he says, swallowing.

“Can’t get you out of my head, Bradley James,” says Colin. “I never meant to hurt you, love. God. I love you so much, Bradley, you mean the world to me. Surely you knew that?”

Bradley didn’t.

“We both fucked up didn’t we?” Bradley says, with a rueful laugh. “Because I love you, Col. I’ve always loved you. And I didn’t mean to push you into anything. I would never do that, not really. I knew deep down it wasn’t magic, it was just fantasy.”

“I know,” says Colin. “I’m sorry I hurt you Bradley, I accused you of terrible things, and I know you’re not manipulative like that, I know you’re not, I was just…, I overreacted, and then I felt so guilty about the setup, things had gone too far, I didn’t know how to tell you what I’d done…”  

“You’re a feckin eejit, Morgan,” says Bradley in his best Northern Irish accent, tightening his hold. Colin laughs, and Bradley can feel his torso shake.

“You, Bradley James, are a first class tosser,” Colin says. “And your Irish accent sounds Australian.” Colin’s upper-class British accent is convincing.

Bradley digs a tickling finger into Colin’s ribs and is rewarded with a wriggle. “Oof!” says Colin, “that’s an underhand tactic.” His Irish brogue returns in full force. Bradley takes the mangled vowels and soft consonants, squirrels them away in a warm part of his brain that’s reserved just for Colin, feels his heart swell with gratitude.

Bradley’s hands can feel Colin’s rib-cage rumble. He sucks in Colin’s laughter and sly smiles, greedy for them. They’re Bradley’s heroin.

“I spoke to Katie,” says Colin.

Bradley’s aghast. “You spoke to the Queen Ninja?”

Colin holds up a finger. “Hypothetically. About. Erm. Us.”

Bradley frowns. “I’m pretty sure you mean metaphorically. As in metaphorical Queen Ninja.”

“No, I mean hypothetically. As in, Katie, if I hypothetically had screwed up a hypothetical relationship that was really, really important. If I’d played a hypothetical prank that escalated into a massive fucking argument about controlling behaviour and lack of respect, and managed to hurt someone I cared about. Was it hypothetically fucked forever, or could I try to fix it? That sort of hypothetical.”

“There’s nothing hypothetical about that, Morgan. That’s basically telling the Queen Ninja you’re pining. She’ll have seen straight through the subterfuge.”

“I’m not pining! I’m contrite! Okay, maybe I’m pining. She absolutely did not know that, but.”

“What did she say?”

Colin sighs. “She said, go and see Bradley and tell him you’re sorry.”

“You see. Queen Ninja.”

Their eyes lock and then they’re both laughing, Colin’s rocking forward at the waist, Bradley’s head is tipping right back in an honest-to-God guffaw, and it’s like the sun coming out after a long winter. They’re still laughing when Bradley bends in to kiss Colin, meshes their lips together, hot, wet and sweet. Colin’s laugh turns to a deep, breathy moan that tugs at Bradley’s loins, and suddenly it’s not funny any more. It’s urgent and desperate.

Bradley lets his iron will slide away, lets his hands do what they will. They roam around Colin’s body, reacquaint themselves with Colin’s skin. They seek hot flesh, finding the spots that make Colin wriggle and cry out, so that Colin’s breathless whimpers, voiceless whispers and stuttering gasps love him in return. 

At last, the glory of Colin’s alabaster skin stretches out, naked, on Bradley’s bed like a feast. Bradley follows his inquisitive hands with sensitive lips, tongue and teeth. He licks and sucks, paints pink trails on Colin’s pale canvas, revels in his sweet scent and salty taste, _le salé et le sucré_. He’s a Colin Morgan gourmand.

Bradley teases as he feasts. Colin moans and writhes deliciously under his mouth and hands. 

Bradley lines his naked body up against Colin’s, slicks them both up with trembling fingers. They revel in each other’s touch—hot, slippery and firm against one another. Bradley’s hand slides in between them, he wraps it round them both. Colin arches into his fingers, his head thrust back into the pillow. “Bradley, sweet Jesus,” he gasps, shifting his hips so they’re lying side by side, both rutting into Bradley’s hand, slippery with lube and pre-come. “Bradley.”

Bradley stares, fascinated at the tip of Colin’s cock, hard against his own, emerging from his fist with every thrust. “Come for me, Col,” he says, as he feels his orgasm building, a high-pitched major chord in his core, “Come for me, love, oh dear God, how I have missed you.” When Colin’s face tenses and his rhythm falters, Bradley’s mouth drops open, and he squeezes his eyes shut, pulsing in heavy strips into the space between them so that his heart nearly stops.

Colin lets out a small, mewling cry and Bradley’s hand is coated in wet heat. “That’s it, love,” says Bradley, heart pounding like a hammer. His other dry hand snakes out from where it’s trapped under the pillow, soothes Colin’s forehead reverently. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful, Col,” he whispers.

Colin’s eyes have disappeared into half moons and his cheeks are dimpling. Bradley feels so proud. He did that. Making Colin smile is like creating art.

“Got unfinished business,” Bradley says. “Left over from Angel's birthday.” When his fingers trace a circle round Colin’s nipple, Colin’s skin twitches minutely at his touch. Bradley revels in this reaction, it’s like coming home.

“Worrisit?” says Col, too dopy for consonants. Colin’s gentle fingers wind into his hair. Bradley arches into them, catlike, his eyes fluttering closed, giving himself over to the sensation.

“Sleeping,” says Bradley, nose nudging into the space at the base of Colin’s neck. “Together.” He reaches round Colin with his limbs until they are touching in as many places as possible. “Waking up in a sweaty tangle.” He can feel Col’s heart beating through his rib cage, the answering rumble of Colin’s sleepy giggle.

He looks at his wet hand. It leaves glistening snail-trails on the bedclothes.

 _“Palms sticky as Bluebeard’s_ ,” Bradley says.

He frowns for a moment when he remembers that the poem is about disappointed hopes. He breathes and presses a kiss to the indentation between Colin’s shoulder blades to reassure himself.

“Stop thinking so loud,” says Colin quietly. “You’re keeping me awake, so you are.”

His hand reaches for Bradley’s and grasps it. It’s still there in the morning.

~end~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem “Blackberry Picking” is by Seamus Heaney, who died last month, but whose words will live on.


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